Gone
by BringMeGiants
Summary: Why does Grissom leave? A shooting, a breakdown...in short, drama, drama, drama...
1. A Bad Idea

**BE WARNED: This is going to be angsty stuff - no funny business here!**

**My first "official" WIP, so reviews are welcomed!**

**A Million thank you's to my beta, sweet-surrender5, for keeping me on track and for fantastic advice! Where would I be without you? (I shudder to think...ha ha!)**

**_Yes - I own them. Off course I do! Hurrah! My life long dream has been accomplished!_**

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**A Bad Idea**

"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Brass was wearing a massive grin as Grissom came up and stood next to him. In the deep twilight that had started to envelop the desert around them, the homicide detective could just about make out the face of the CSI, and he smirked as he saw Grissom struggle to keep the disapproving look _on_ his face, and his lopsided grin _off_ it.

"Well – hello Jim. Fancy meeting you here."

"Nothing fancy about it, my friend. I told the sheriff that if I had to ride a desk one more day, I was quitting…"

"Apparently the threat worked?"

"I'm here aren't I? Bright eyed and bushy tailed, as usual. Tell you what's _not_ usual though," Brass pointed to the CSI's hip, "that gun in your pocket."

Grissom scowled as he placed his field kit on the ground, took out a pair of latex gloves, and snapped them on irritably before he replied. "Technically, the gun is in a holster Jim, not my pocket. New departmental rules – "carry your weapon whenever you're at a scene." It seems that while you were out of action, the sheriff got bored and decided to take his inadequacies out on _me_ instead."

"Yeah, life's a bitch ain't it," Brass snorted. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed these little tête-à-têtes. "But I've been telling you to carry your piece for years now, so for once, the sheriff and I are on the same page. I realise better than anyone that you never know what's gonna happen on this job."

Grissom glowered silently as he fingered the butt of the gun on his hip. "The damn thing weighs a ton and gets in my way. I'm a scientist, not Billy the Kid." He was quiet for a few seconds, watching the buzz that always surrounded a new crime scene – various uniformed personnel scurrying around and the lights on top of the police cars bathing the pictures in front of him in alternate red and blue hues as they flashed_. Jim might be right – after what happened to him and Nicky, a gun might not always be the worst thing in the world…_

"So – are you going to tell me what we've got, or are we going to shoot the breeze all night long?"

"You working solo tonight?"

"Catherine's meeting me here. I had to pull her off a "suspicious circs" in town. Busy night – we're tapped out."

"Well, it's about to get busier. Young Caucasian female, appears to have been sexually assaulted, strangled, stabbed and shot. Couple of hikers saw a leg poking out of the clump of bushes about 50 yards that way, went over to investigate, and hey presto."

"Strangled, stabbed…_and_ shot?"

"Far as I can tell. And from the smell, I'd guess she's been here a couple of days. We're still waiting for someone from the coroner's office, so that's just my humble, preliminary opinion..."

"Hey boys!"

Both men turned as Catherine joined them, her blonde hair fluttering in the cold desert breeze. It was almost the end of November, and there was a decided frostiness in the air – a fact confirmed by the way her warm breath formed clouds of white steam as she spoke.

"Nice to see you back in the field again, Jim. You wanna tell me what we got?"

Grissom wandered over to the thicket that Brass had pointed out as the detective began to fill Catherine in. Until David arrived, he couldn't touch the remains, but nothing prevented him from taking a look in the meantime.

The naked body of the young woman was sprawled partly under the brush, ghostly pale and almost luminescent in the feeble moonlight. With a curt nod and quiet word, Grissom sent the waiting cop away. He needed time alone with the body.

Needed time to think.

He winced as he shone his flashlight over her. She couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty years old, with long blonde hair and a face that – Grissom surmised – was very pretty when she was alive. But now her features were contorted, her mouth twisted in a silent scream – an indication of the horrors she experienced during her last moments.

"_Do not go gentle into that good night…rage, rage against the dying of the light," _Grissom murmured softly to himself.

Rage she certainly did – the defensive wounds on her hands and arms seemed to have happened while trying to ward off the slashes of a knife, and leaning closer, Grissom could see that a nail on her right hand was broken. _Good. If you scratched him, his DNA under your fingernails will be all the evidence we'll need._

"Was Brass right?"

Catherine came up behind him, her flashlight sweeping over the body at his feet as she raked her eyes over the ground in front of her. Grissom gave her a few moments to acquaint herself with the scene before he answered.

"Defensive wounds look like they might be from some kind of blade. Ligature marks round her throat, and two points of entry, maybe from…a 9mm? We'll know more once David gets here."

"Wow. So the perp was…what? Over zealous? A novice? Just…having fun?"

"Possibly, all of the above." Moving cautiously round the body, Grissom sank to his haunches and snapped a few photos of the ground in front of him. "I've got blood…and it seems to be leading away from the body." Digging a swab out of his pocket, he dipped it into one of the drops in front of him and with a startled grunt, twisted his body round to face Catherine. "And it seems to be fresh…"

"Fresh?" Catherine looked at him with stunned disbelief. "Are you sure?"

"Catherine - I'm pretty sure I can recognise fresh blood when I see it."

Rolling her eyes, she walked over and crouched beside him, studying the swab with animated interest. "I'm confused. The body's obviously been here at least a couple of days. Where did _fresh_ blood come from?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Getting to his feet, Grissom flashed his light along the trail of blood leading away from the body and disappearing into the desert. "You coming?"

Looking at him incredulously, Catherine groaned. "You're joking right? We're going to wander off into the darkness, when a psycho killer could quite possibly be hiding behind the nearest rock? Uh…thanks, but…no."

"Typically, rapists will take a trophy from their victim and then leave the scene of the crime, so no - I don't expect to find any…"psycho killers"…hiding behind the rocks." Flipping his cell phone open, Grissom started dialling a number. "Hey, Jim? Yeah. We're going to take a quick stroll round the perimeter. Phone me when David gets here OK?" He snapped the phone shut and picked up his field kit.

"Gil…"

"Catherine, the place is crawling with cops. Plus, thanks to the kind ministrations of our dear sheriff, I now have to carry a loaded weapon whenever I set foot outside the lab, so never fear - I'll protect you."

Catherine snorted. "Huh. Thanks, but mercifully I carry a gun of my own, so you just try and keep up Dirty Harry."

With that she marched off, the lone yellow beam from her flashlight scanning methodically through the sea of darkness around her. Grissom turned from her for a moment to steal a last glance at the corpse near his feet – and noticed something fluttering on a branch near the dead woman's head. Treading softly, he leaned over and plucked the object from the bush. _Material. Cotton? Torn from the suspect's shirt perhaps?_

"Cath? Come take a look at this, will you!" he called, but the background hum of the people and cars in the distance were the only answers he got. Half turning in her direction, and yelling over his shoulder, he tried again – louder this time. "Catherine!"

Still nothing.

With an exasperated sigh he turned completely, expecting to see the glow from her flashlight bobbing around in the blackness behind him, but instead only an impenetrable wall of inky shadows greeted him.

No flashlight.

No Catherine.

Swallowing hard to try and rid himself of the slight flutter in his stomach, he pulled his cell from his pocket. No need to start panicking just yet. He let the phone ring for a full minute before he ended the unanswered call. Stabbing at the keypad again, he dialled a second number. "Jim…it's me. Is Catherine with you?"

"_Nope – last I saw of her, she was heading over to you. Are you two done with your little stroll? Cause the Coroner's van just pulle—"_

"Brass, she's gone."

"_What are you talking about?"_

"I took my eyes off her for a minute, and now she's gone. She's not answering her cell and I can't see her anywhere…" Grissom's voice trailed off. _Shit! Walking around in the dark without backup had been my half assed idea. Where the hell is she?_

"I'm going to look for her. I'm just north of the body. Send some backup over just in case, will you?" His calm voice belied the way the cell was trembling as he held it against his ear. _Please let her be OK. Please let her be OK…_

Grissom snapped his phone shut as he pulled his gun from its holster. His unease was growing - a tight, painful knot right in the pit of his stomach. Striding through the darkness, he swept the beam of his powerful flashlight from side to side, calling Catherine's name loudly as he went. Everything else was eerily quiet, as if Mother Nature itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. _Where the hell is she? It's not like her to just drop off the face of the planet, she would've checked in with either me or Brass by now…_

Bellowing her name again, Grissom leaned tiredly against a rocky outcrop, and wiped at the beads of cold sweat on his forehead. Taking a deep breath, he tried to compose himself and contemplated what to do next.

He didn't have to speculate for long.

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**_A/N: Lemme know what you think!_**


	2. No Choice

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed – you guys are GREAT! It really makes all the difference…**

**And to my SPLENDID beta: sweet-surrender5, who spotted a rather huge plot hole and helped me to fill it!**

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**No Choice**

The sudden piercing scream from behind the boulder he was leaning against, instantly made the blood in Grissom's veins run cold. There was something so primal in Catherine's cry that it made every hair on his scalp stand on end, and the immediate surge of adrenaline that shot through his body almost made it impossible for him to move.

But move he did – almost falling over his own feet in his haste to get to the source of that shriek. _Oh god, oh god…_

The sight that greeted him was like a physical punch in the gut, knocking the last vestiges of breath from his body with a force he could scarce believe. Catherine's face was the first thing he saw in the bobbing beam of his flashlight as it lit up the scene in front of him – a cut across her forehead was bleeding profusely and her hair was a tangled mess, clinging to her face in sweaty, blood clotted strands.

But it was her eyes that seemed to imprison him in this waking nightmare, wide and staring and terrified – holding his gaze unblinkingly, exactly the same way Nick's had all those months ago.

Then there was the gun - pressed brutally to her temple, while the blood from her forehead formed a small rivulet which was trickling round the muzzle, down her neck and pooling along the collar of her light coloured jacket before oozing slowly downwards. The grimy hand clamped over her mouth prevented her from making a sound, but her eyes told him all he needed to know.

_Help me…_

The gun in Grissom's hand suddenly felt very heavy as he slowly lifted it to eye level and took a cautious step toward Catherine and the grimy juvenile who was holding her captive. The boy couldn't have been more that 16 or 17, but his features were distorted, and Grissom absently noted the crazy, constantly shifting eyes and the compulsive jerk of the boy's head from side to side. _Mental illness, or drugs. Probably both. Either way – I'm screwed…_

The vast tracks of dried blood on the adolescent's tattered clothes and the deep gouges on his face – evidence that the dead woman had indeed fought frantically for her life.

With a desperate effort, Grissom kept his voice as low and soothing as he could. "Cath – are you OK?" She blatantly wasn't, but she managed a small nod anyway, and as her attacker visibly tightened his grip over her mouth, Grissom warily ventured one step closer. _Slowly, just do this calmly and slowly_.

"Hey…I'm—"

"Stay the fuck away from me!" The boy's voice was high pitched, the hysteria conspicuous and tangible - the madness unmistakeable. Grissom's chest tightened so acutely that he thought he would faint from the pain. _Shit. He's way past the "let's be reasonable about this" stage…_

"Don't come any closer, or I'll kill the bitch, you understand me!"

Grissom stayed silent, but took another guarded step forward, the gun unwavering in his hand, even though the rest of his body felt like it was made from jelly. He flicked his eyes back to Catherine and was alarmed to see just how viciously the gun was digging into her temple. Her panicked eyes were pleading silently with him, while both her hands were clinging to the arm which snaked around her body and clamped over her mouth.

"Look, we can find a way out of this OK? But first you have to let her go…" _Where the hell is Brass?_

"There's no way out! Not for me, not for her!"

"Of course there is...just…put the gun down…"

"You fucking keep away!"

"Listen, jus—"

"Shut up! She's gonna die, just like the other bitch!"

_Shit. If he panics and pulls the trigger – even accidentally - Catherine will be dead before she even hits the ground… _

_Oh god, please don't let that happen. _

"Why?"

_Just keep him talking. If he's talking he's not thinking, and if he's not thinking he might slip up, give you an opportunity…_

"Stop talking to me! I'll kill her, I fucking swear!"

_Where the fuck is Brass? _

"Gil…"

Brass's voice floated to him from somewhere behind his right shoulder and although the detective tried his best to hide it, Grissom could hear the unmistakable twinge of alarm breaking through that quietly spoken word. _Thank god. The cavalry._

With the attacker's attention momentarily shifting to the detective, Grissom took the opportunity to take another couple of steps forward. He was close enough now to take a shot if the occasion presented itself, close enough to be reasonably sure he wouldn't hit Catherine while shooting at the boy behind her. _But it's not going to come to that. We'll talk him down. _

_We just have to._

"Jim…" His voice sounded hoarse and he had trouble pushing the air from his lungs, through his enclosed throat and out of his dry mouth. "Talk to me…" _Tell me what the hell we do next._

"Do you have a shot?"

_What the hell do you mean, do I have a shot? I'm not about to shoot at a teenager! I usually don't even carry a gun for fuck's sakes!_

"Yes. I do."

_But I'm not going to do it._

Grissom first heard Brass exhale a long, terse breath and then the crunch of pebbles and sand against the frozen desert ground as the detective took a few hesitant steps closer.

"Good, just stay—"

"Stop talking! And I fucking swear if you take one more step closer, I'm killing the bitch right now, you fucking understand me?"

And as if to prove his point, the teenager slithered his free hand from Catherine's mouth to her neck and then visibly tightened his new found grip. The huge billows of white fog that initially escaped from her mouth as her warm breath rushed out, was gradually becoming smaller and smaller.

_Oh my god…_

"Gil…" Her voice was nothing more than a croak – a solitary word uttered with hardly any intonation, but speaking to him with a clarity that made his head spin. It managed to convey everything he knew she must be thinking and feeling.

_Please help me…tell Lindsey…I'm sorry…_

Fear was paralysing him, and everything seemed to be happening at half speed. Everything except his thoughts, which were racing through his head so fast he could hardly make any sense of them.

_Shoot him. I can't. It's your only option. He's just a boy. You have no choice... _

"Grissom – take the shot." Brass's voice was still behind him – low and seemingly unflustered, but with an unmistakeable undercurrent of desperation. The boy's hand in front of him was clamping down on the pale flesh of Catherine's neck with more intent, his finger curling around the trigger with more insistence.

_Don't make me do this..._

"Take the shot!" The growl behind him now edged with terror and fear.

_He's just a fucking boy…_

"Gil…" Catherine's voice, nothing more than a panic-stricken wheeze.

_I won't..._

"Take the fucking shot!"

_I can't…_

"Shoot!"

_You have no choice…_

Grissom's finger curled painfully around the trigger and a second later, an almighty bang split the air around them, echoing in their ears as it bounced off the surrounding rocks before finally fading into complete and excruciating silence.

_No choice._

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**A/N: See – I warned you at the beginning of this fic…there'll be NO funny business here! But I hope you enjoyed it anyway…**

**Leave me a review and lemme know what you thought!**


	3. Walking Shadows

**Thanks to everyone who takes the time to read and review - you make my day!**

**And to good ol' sweet-surrender5 for the beta - how you fit it all in is a complete mystery to me!**

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**Walking Shadows**

Grissom would never have a clear idea of exactly what happened in the immediate aftermath of pulling that trigger. Everything was a complete blur, nothing more than a seemingly endless succession of disjointed images and intelligible sounds.

He was faintly aware of sinking to his knees, the gun still clasped in a vice like grip even as it connected with the frozen ground in a dull thud. Of Catherine wrenching herself free from the assailant's limp body and taking a couple of unsteady steps before crumpling in a heap against the face of the rock, sobbing uncontrollably. Of Brass rushing past him, his gun trained on the lifeless form slumped at the base of the boulder, while shouting something into his radio that Grissom couldn't make out.

And of the boy, sprawled on the ground, his shoulders propped against the rock behind him, the ghastly wound above his right eye oozing a crimson stream of blood that seemed to gush like a raging waterfall in the beam of Brass's flashlight.

Grissom barely noticed when the detective started securing the scene, when the cops ran to him - past him, when Brass knelt at Catherine's side, trying awkwardly to comfort her without touching her, or when a car came to a screeching halt somewhere behind them, even though the sudden harsh rays from its headlights were like needles stabbing his eyes.

He saw only the ghoulish, eerie silhouettes that were bouncing around on the rock in front of him like a macabre troupe of shadow puppets.

_Life is but a walking shadow…life is but a walking shadow…life is but a walking shadow…_

Over and over and over the phrase repeated in his head, until he wanted to slam his fists into the ground and scream the refrain into the murky night, hoping – praying – that the icy desert breeze would pick it up and waft it away, and by doing so, somehow release him from the prison he could feel closing in around his mind and his heart.

But none of the words escaped his lips. The only thing he _did_ allow his overwrought body to let go of, were the unsteady breaths he found impossible to control. He wasn't even able to release the gun he was still clinging to - clutching it with such force that when Brass eventually came over to him, the detective needed both his hands to pry Grissom's stiff fingers open, so he could take the weapon into evidence.

"Gil."

The detective's voice was gentle as he crouched next to the hunkered down frame in front of him. Grissom hadn't moved a muscle since dropping to the ground and – Brass noted with concern – he also hadn't stopped staring at the prostrate body of the dead boy in front of him. The CSI was like a statue, his face subconsciously rearranging itself into an unreadable mask – a trick, Brass knew, that Grissom had perfected years ago. But it was a ploy that he'd never quite been able to master when it came to his eyes, and looking into them now, Jim was alarmed at the intensity of the emotions he saw swirling around in their indigo depths.

"Grissom," the detective tried again - a little firmer this time – as he softly placed a hand on the shoulder in front of him. "I have to take the gun…" But those blue eyes never even blinked and Brass was forced to loosen the unyielding fingers one at a time, until he could slip the weapon from the CSI's grasp. Lifting his arm slightly, he handed it to the policeman waiting next to his shoulder, and the young cop slipped it into a plastic evidence bag before leaving the two older men alone in the sea of activity around them.

"Catherine…"

Grissom's voice was muffled and Brass was startled to hear the unmistakable tremor in his voice. It was completely understandable, but still – in all the years he had known Gil Grissom, the man had never allowed any show of sentiment to crack through his hardened shell of efficient professionalism.

"She's okay. Shaken up obviously - but okay."

"Where…"

"In the ambulance. The paramedics are just checking her out before they take her to Desert Palms."

Brass was greatly relieved when Grissom finally blinked, and slowly twisted his body to look at the ambulance behind him. Groaning slightly, the CSI lethargically got to his feet and shook his head slightly as if he was trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain. The numbness that had paralysed his body and mind was starting to wane, but along with the sensations that were slowly returning to his stiff muscles and joints, came the unwelcome flashes and images of what had happened, so sharp that it felt like a stab wound through his temple. He shook his head again - angrily, muttering under his breath, wishing that Brass would just leave him alone and give him a minute to gather his thoughts.

The last thing he needed now, was the sympathy he could see shining in his friend's eyes.

"I want to see her." The words were flat, impassive – all he could manage while being reasonably sure that he could keep his emotions in check. _Don't look at Jim, don't look at the boy, just breathe… _

_Breathe… _

_Breathe._

"Sure, go ahead." And with tacit understanding, Brass backed off, turned around and strode to the small group of policemen clustered around the dead body, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as he walked.

Grissom trudged to the ambulance, hardly aware of the cops that seemed to be swarming everywhere, and passed by David, who was waiting next to the coroner's van, without even acknowledging the younger man's presence. Upon reaching the open back of the ambulance, he took a shuddering breath, before lifting his eyes to glimpse inside.

Catherine was lying motionless in the back, while a paramedic gently held an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy, but she was no longer crying and the deep cut on her forehead was clean and bandaged. However, the bruises and swelling had started to appear and Grissom gasped as he took in the lumps and angry red blotches on her face and neck.

He had to bite down hard on his bottom lip to keep his face neutral and it took a few, long seconds before he trusted his voice enough to speak to her.

"Hey." He honestly couldn't think of anything else to say at that moment – everything in his head sounded so impossibly trite and banal.

Catherine gave him a tired smile through the oxygen mask, but didn't reply. Not knowing what else to do, Grissom simply sought out her hand and held the trembling fingers loosely before giving them a soft squeeze. Then he turned away and walked over to Brass who was coming towards him.

"I need to take you to the station to get your statement. Ecklie's been notified, he'll get somebody from swing shift to come and process here."

Grissom nodded mutely, but didn't immediately follow Brass to the waiting squad car.

"I…I need…to…call…"

Glancing at his friend with infinite understanding, Brass gave a small nod and motioned encouragingly with his hand.

"Don't worry, I already did. Sara will meet us there."

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**_A/N: Hooray! Sara finally (sort of) makes an appearance..._**


	4. Icy Control

**Again – as always – many thanks for all the kind reviews! They make all the effort worth it…**

**And a huge veggie burger to sweet-surrender5, my long suffering beta!**

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**Icy Control**

Jim Brass was nobody's fool. At the first available opportunity, when the initial hubbub that followed the shooting had died down, he had taken a moment to make two calls.

The first one was a relatively easy one to Conrad Ecklie, and after just a few minutes, he had snapped his phone shut, thankful for once that Ecklie was such (Brass had grimaced at the thought) an "officious" man, for he knew he could trust the Assistant Lab Director to take care of all the additional arrangements that now needed to be made.

That – at least – was one less thing for the detective to worry about.

The second call was much harder to make. Not least of all because Brass wasn't quite sure what the correct social protocol was under these circumstances.

For years, he – like everyone at the lab – had watched this strange tango between Grissom and Sara. One would advance, the other would retreat, there would be an apparent deadlock for a few weeks or months and then the resolve of one would crack, before the whole endless loop started all over again. Like binary stars, they circled but never touched and Brass had all but given up on them a long time ago.

Had reconciled himself to the fact that these were two people who probably weren't destined to _ever_ find each other. And it had saddened him immensely, because he was intimately acquainted with that particular little thorn that life had to offer.

But slowly the winds shifted and at first he'd hardly even noticed it. Everyone was on an emotional high after Nick got pulled out of the box, and for weeks afterwards, they _all_ seemed to be almost deliriously happy. Happy that they were one team again, happy that they got to Nick in time – just happy to be alive. And Brass had naturally ascribed the resumption of the dance between _them _to that delirium.

Bitter experience had taught him it wouldn't last.

So he'd waited, resigned to the fact that after a few weeks, or - at the utmost – a few months, one (or both) would get cold feet and rebuild that invisible wall between them again. That the new found comfort and ease around each other would eventually shatter and fragment like fragile glass - the way it had every single time before.

He'd waited and waited and waited.

He was _still _waiting.

Now – after the better part of a year – he had become cautiously optimistic that _this_ time, maybe the change _was_ permanent. When he'd quietly asked Catherine about it one day, he was relieved to find that he wasn't the _only_ one who had seen the writing on the wall.

"_They haven't told me bubcus Jim, but I have eyes in my head and let me tell you something - those two aren't nearly as clever as they would like us all to believe. They can try and hide it as much as they like, but I'm not blind…"_

Catherine's assessment was the reason why Brass had decided to make that second call. After a couple of minutes, Sara had finally answered, her voice groggy and lacklustre and for a moment the detective was slightly taken aback – somehow it had never occurred to him that Sara might have the night off. But he'd pressed on, and tried to explain the situation as quickly and simply as possible. She'd listened quietly, saying nothing save for a terse _I'll meet you at the station_ when he had finally finished.

And that – as they say – had been that.

By the time Brass and Grissom got to the Police Station nearly an hour later, Sara was already in the waiting room, pacing around anxiously, a cup of coffee clutched in her hand.

Grissom had been silent the entire ride back, staring out of his window with unseeing eyes, not acknowledging Brass's half hearted attempts at conversation in the car and mutely following the detective inside once they'd arrived at the Police Station. It was disconcerting – Grissom was always the one with all the answers, the one who kept it together under any circumstances and to see him this withdrawn was – quite frankly – freaking his friend out a little.

Spying Sara through the glass walls of the waiting room, Brass came to a stop and snuck a look at Grissom. The CSI had his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers and was chewing on the inside of his mouth while staring intently at the form moving back and forth on the other side of the panes of glass. It took Sara only a couple of seconds before she seemed to sense he was there – she stopped pacing, her back still turned to the men in the hall and then slowly swivelled around. Her dark eyes locked with his blue ones and a silent moment passed between them before Grissom felt a gentle touch on his elbow.

"We've got to get your statement first…"

Brass's voice was apologetic and the CSI sighed audibly before allowing the detective to lead him away to the interrogation room. He could feel Sara's eyes burning a hole in his back all the way down the corridor and for one appalling moment he almost wished she wasn't there. It was hard enough keeping it together in front of Brass – but seeing Sara's compassionate face shot a shaft of pain from his gut straight through his heart and from there to his head, leaving him with a strange burning sensation somewhere behind his eyelids – a feeling he hadn't felt since he was nine years old, and one he didn't welcome back now.

_Damn it._

_Damn her._

And yet - he was unimaginably relieved to know that she had come, that she was only a few yards away and that she would still be there waiting for him when he was finally done.

Thankfully, it all took less time than he feared. Detective Vartann took his statement, asked a few additional questions and then snapped the cassette recorder off. Apparently that was Ecklie's cue to enter and Grissom quietly steeled himself for the fire and brimstone that was undoubtedly about to be unleashed on his head, but Ecklie was in a rare mood and surprisingly supportive.

"By all accounts it was a clean shoot, Gil – there shouldn't be any problems with the I.A. investigation. Catherine's at Desert Palms, she doing fine, but she's under sedation at the moment, so don't bother stopping by there tonight. Go home, take a few days off – until all the paper work's done, you're on Administrative Leave anyway. I've got everything around here covered."

Grissom simply nodded mutely as Ecklie stood in the doorway of the interrogation room, looking as if he had something more to say. But after a moment the Assistant Lab Director seemed to think better of it and simply gave Grissom a small nod before turning on his heel and brushing past Brass who was waiting just outside.

"I told Sara to wait in my office. Fewer prying eyes in there," the detective said as he watched Grissom wearily rise from his chair. The CSI looked tired – his face drawn and the lines round his eyes seemingly deeper that normal – all of which was to be expected, Brass realised. But it was the haunted, empty look that had settled in those blue orbs that had the detective rattled.

"Look, Gil – it was a clean shoot, OK? It was either Catherine or him, so try not to feel—"

"I killed a boy, Brass, so don't tell me how I'm supposed to feel."

Brass regarded the man before him with sympathy. He had some understanding of the demons that Grissom was struggling with, and knew that there was very little anyone could do or say at the moment that would be of any practical help.

"OK."

Stepping aside, he watched worriedly as Grissom strode to his office and lingered in front of the closed door for a long minute. He heaved a sigh of relief when the CSI finally turned the knob and entered. _Maybe Sara will fare better._

One look at the lanky brunette waiting for him was all it took for Grissom's thin veneer of icy control to finally slip. He could feel the telltale prickling behind his eyes return as his emotions betrayed him at last and he found himself unable to move; forcing Sara to close the gap between them. When she slipped her arms around his waist, he hugged her fiercely to him, grateful that he could bury his face in the hair at her neck.

Grateful that she wouldn't be able to see the tears he could no longer hold back.

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**A/N: See, I warned you. Angst, angst, angst. But at least Sara's in the picture now, so maybe it will all be OK? (Author grins evilly...)**


	5. Out In The Cold

**A little angst, then a teeny, tiny little bit of fluff, then lots more angst. Obviously. Great description, ain't it? (hee hee…)**

**And for my beta _sweet-surrender5_ – a special CD of D'Rob's singing…**

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**Out In The Cold**

They finally arrived back at her apartment in the early hours of the morning and she fixed them a simple breakfast while he took a shower – standing under the scalding water for almost forty minutes before it ran cold, hoping that the soak would dissolve the muck that seemed to be clinging to every pore of his body. He felt filthy and grimy and somewhere in his subconscious, he realised that the feeling had more to do with his state of mind than with any _physical_ dirt that might be sticking to him.

He got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and leaned heavily on the basin as he stared at his reflection in the mirror above it. He'd gotten used to the clean shaven face and – truth be told - he preferred the new look, but right now he wished fervently he could have that beard back.

He needed to have it before he could face Sara again.

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"_Please?"_

"_No."_

"_Oh come on Gris. You can always grow it back if you don't like it. Besides - this is Vegas. We live in the middle of the damn desert. Doesn't it get hot under all that hair?"_

"_I thought you liked the beard. In fact - your exact words when describing it was "distinguished" and "cute". Which - by the way - was not exactly what I had in mind when I decided to grow it."_

"_You have a problem with looking distinguished?"_

"_No. I have a problem with looking cute."_

_She laughed at his grumpy expression and pulled him into a hug, her palm running across the soft hair on his jaw. "Poor baby. But you realise that I've only had the pleasure of touching your bare cheek once before and let's just say - I wouldn't mind a repeat performance…"_

_Her words managed to elicit a grudgingly lopsided grin, but he wasn't giving up so easily. "Did you know that in olden times, beards were emblems of wisdom and piety?" he tried as a last ditch effort._

_But she was having none of it. "Grissom, I have complete confidence that you'll still be wise and--" she waggled her eyebrows suggestively "—pious, even without the facial hair."_

_His grin morphed into a salacious smirk. "Fine. But I reserve the right to grow it back whenever I want too. And I'm only shaving after we give it a proper goodbye…"_

_Later – much later – she sat on the edge of the bath and sniggered at the oaths that escaped his lips every time he accidentally nicked himself with the razor. When he was finished, his chin was smooth but he had numerous bits of white tissue stuck to the tiny bleeding cuts and she couldn't contain her laughter at the look of utter horror on his face._

"_Look at me! I knew I should've just listened to my mother."_

"_Huh?" she managed to snort between fits of giggles. _

"_She once told me that 'Vanity is the quicksand of reason.' Turns out she was a very wise woman..."_

_It took a Herculean effort, but Sara somehow managed to stop laughing. "Well, I think you look--"_

"_Oh god," he groaned. "Please don't say cute."_

"_--ruggedly handsome," she finished, as she leaned into him and peeled the bits of tissue off. "And young…" she smiled, replacing each piece of wafer thin paper with a feather light kiss. "…and--" But he pressed his lips against hers and whatever she wanted to say got lost in the small moan that escaped her throat._

_Suffice it to say, he hadn't sulked about the loss of the beard for too long after that._

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But when he saw himself now, he cringed. He looked haggard, his eyes red rimmed – whether from tiredness or his earlier tears he didn't wish to speculate – and there were huge bags under his eyes, while every line on his face seemed cavernous. He craved the beard – desperately needing the comfort of a mask he could hide behind, something that could serve as a barrier between him and the outside world.

Something that could help him hide from Sara.

He suddenly felt unable to breathe and sank to a sitting position on the edge of the bath, clenching and unclenching his fists spasmodically, trying desperately to get his strangled gasps under control and stubbornly fighting off the invisible hands of panic that seemed to be reaching for him.

He refused to allow his traitorous body another loss of self-control – not after spending almost ten minutes quietly sobbing into Sara's hair at the Police Station and certainly not while sitting on Sara's bath with only a towel wrapped around his shaking body. He couldn't bear the thought of her seeing him like this.

Not again.

But despite his best efforts, that was exactly how she eventually found him. She knelt in front of him and he turned his face away in a desperate attempt to hide from her, but she placed a soft palm on his smooth cheek, pulling his face back to her - compelling him to meet her eyes, silently begging him to say something, to let her in, to allow her to help him.

He found it impossible to do. He couldn't find the words to talk to her, couldn't allow himself to let her in and he couldn't force himself to eat more than a couple of mouthfuls of the breakfast she'd prepared.

And he couldn't bear to let her touch him, even though his body was screaming out for the embrace.

And when Sara finally fell into a fitful sleep beside him, he'd got up and went outside, hoping that the faint rays of the wintry sunrise would somehow warm him and melt the frost that had settled around his heart.

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Sitting on Sara's balcony, Grissom squinted as the feeble rays crept over the mountain tops in the distance and basked his face in a soft glow. He'd been out here for almost an hour, dressed in nothing but his pyjama bottoms and wrapped in a thin blanket, and he was frozen stiff. But he welcomed the discomfort, welcomed the fact that for the first time in hours he was shaking from something other than adrenaline, welcomed the fact that finally, he was at least feeling something otherthan mind numbing despondency.

In the harsh light of day, the events of the previous evening were starting to blur, taking on a dreamlike quality that he found greatly comforting. Sitting here like this, with the blanket swathed around his trembling body, he could almost imagine that none of it had happened at all – that it was just a hideous hallucination – nothing more than a night terror that had woken him up and kept him awake all evening.

But whenever a regular nightmare roused him, all he needed to do was get a drink of water, snuggle up to Sara's warm body and after five minutes he'd fall into a deep, dreamless sleep for the rest of the night.

Something that obviously wasn't going to happen today.

The sun was shining directly in his face now, and he had to shield his eyes from the bright glare. Groaning slightly, he shifted in his seat so that he could place his elbow on the armrest next to him and lifted his hand to his brow, casting a shadow over his sensitive eyes. He was bone tired and desperately wanted to go inside, to climb into the warm bed and wrap Sara's long limbs around his weary body, but for some inexplicable reason he didn't move.

Out here he was alone with his haunted thoughts, with the shards of memories that would periodically flash through his brain and leave him struggling for breath. Out here it was way too cold, making him shiver violently as the numbness that had started in his toes had spread upwards to envelop his feet and was now making its way past his calves and up to his chest.

Into his heart.

Inside, he knew, it was warm and welcoming, with Sara's lean body encased invitingly in their cosy bed, her hot breath blowing softly over her pillow. He could go in right now, wake her up, spill his pain and his fears and be absolutely sure that she would listen patiently while he unburdened himself to her. She would know what to say to make this terrible pressure in his chest go away, to make him forget about that bottle of whiskey he kept in the back of the cupboard in her kitchen.

But he didn't move. He couldn't go in and seek out the comfort he so desperately needed. He couldn't let her take care of him and help him through this. Couldn't allow her to share his anguish and free him from it.

Couldn't allow it, because there was one thing he was now _absolutely_ sure of – after what he'd done, he was no longer worthy of anyone's compassion or understanding.

And he was definitely no longer worthy of her.

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**A/N: Oh, the drama. And as you can see, I'm still mourning the loss of the beard. So sue me… **

**Anyway, be kind and leave a review. It might just distract me long enough to get DRob's damn song out of my head… **


	6. Harsh Words

**To everyone who's reading and to those taking the time to review – thanks! **

**And also to my fantastic beta, sweet-surrender5, who keeps ploughing manfully through all the angst!**

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**Harsh Words**

When she woke up and realised he wasn't in the bed next to her, she panicked for a moment, wondering if he'd gone back to his town house, wondering what it would mean if he _did_, what she should _do_, if he did.

But she found him outside, sitting alone on her tiny balcony, wrapped in a blanket, his bowed head resting in his left hand. He was almost blue from the cold and looked pale and defeated, but – for the moment – he was _here_, and that was _some _consolation at least.

She studied him silently through the sliding door that led outside, noticing that he wasn't moving a muscle – that the slow rise and fall of his hunched shoulders seemed to be the only indication that he was even alive.

_Well_, she corrected herself grimly. _Alive physically. _But mentally, _emotionally_, she wasn't so sure.

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Grissom had never been the kind of man to wear his heart on his sleeve and when Brass had gotten shot, Sara was as shocked as anyone to learn that he had chosen _Grissom_ as his medical proxy, imbuing the least emotive of the CSI's with the power over his life – or his death.

And Grissom took his friend's trust in both hands and made the gruelling decisions, showing hardly any outward reactions to the grave situation and doing what he always did. He threw himself in his work, denied his feelings and pretended that he was in utter and complete control.

That poker face - as always – unwavering.

But unlike Nick's kidnapping a year earlier, Sara had no longer been fooled by the carefully devised display – even though her colleagues had all seemed to be. After almost twelve months with Grissom, she had learnt not to take his little charades at face value. Learnt that what he feels, and what he ends up showing to the world, was almost always two very different things.

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"_You OK?" _

_It was the second time today she was asking him that question. Earlier when she walked past his office, he was sitting alone at his desk, looking so forlorn that she'd felt compelled to go in, hoping that she'd be able to offer him some comfort. She'd wanted to pull him into her arms, kiss him, but instead she had to content herself with merely touching him briefly on the shoulder. _

_They were at work and she'd understood that he wouldn't want to discuss anything there, so she'd tactfully changed the subject to the book he was flipping through. The pictures of the men in corsets proved to be as good a distraction as any._

_But they were at home now and this time there was a tremor in his voice that hadn't been there before. The glass of whiskey in his hand was trembling slightly, causing the two blocks of ice inside to clink against each other. _

"_I'm OK." But he didn't sound it._

_She sat down on the couch next to him and patted his knee softly, and after a few moments he closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the sofa. His palm was clammy when he took hold of her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers._

"_Talk to me Gris."_

"_Sara--"_

_When he didn't continue, she squeezed his hand encouragingly. "Just talk to me - it's not as hard as you think, I promise."_

"_Talking about it won't change anything, you know." He sounded bone tired and his voice was husky. "What's done cannot be undone…"_

"_No, but sharing it with someone can help lighten the load. I have some experience, so trust me on this."_

"_Sara--"_

"_Just talk Grissom."_

"_And say what?"_

"_Anything you want. I'm not going anywhere."_

_He needed a bit more Dutch courage and she had to prod him gently a few more times, but after a while he started getting it out in fits and starts. His concerns about the decisions he'd made regarding Brass' treatment, his fears that Brass wouldn't recover, his dread that Brass would be permanently incapacitated._

_As he talked, he finally allowed that carefully honed mask of indifference to slip. It all came pouring out of him as he sat on the couch, clasping her hand._

_And she was infinitely grateful that she'd finally managed to break through the last layer of that armoured shell._

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Or so she'd thought. But looking at him now, she wasn't so sure. Something was different. And she didn't know what she was supposed to do about it. One thing was for sure though – on this occasion his torment wasn't going to be assuaged with a miraculous recovery, the way it was last time.

Mercifully, Brass had gotten better. But the boy would stay dead, no matter how much Grissom might pray for a miracle.

Sure – he had hugged her and buried his face in her hair at the Police Station last night - and he'd allowed her to hold him as the dry sobs wracked his body. But after a while his shoulders had abruptly stopped shaking and he'd taken a quick swipe at his eyes before dropping his arms limply to his sides. And he'd hardly spoken to or touched her since, and that was frightening the life out of her.

Sara pulled the sliding door open and quietly lowered herself onto the chair next to him. He didn't acknowledge her presence, but his slight flinch as he shifted in his seat spoke volumes.

"Hey." Her voice was soft but insistent and she was staring at him earnestly, much as she had done in the bathroom earlier. But he couldn't bear the intensity of that searching gaze again, so he kept his head down and shifted his left hand slightly so that it shielded his eyes from hers. Placing a gentle hand on his leg, she gave it a soft squeeze and tried again.

"Did you get any sleep?"

He gruffly swatted her hand from his knee, but didn't say anything. She wasn't going to be deterred however and she reached up to the hand that was covering his eyes and curled her fingers around his wrist, tugging softly.

"Gris, look at—"

"Don't touch me."

The words were so unexpected, that for a moment Sara was completely taken aback and she involuntarily tightened her grip on his wrist, instinctively needing to form a connection with him – unwilling to believe the words he'd just ground out through his clenched jaw.

"Please don't shut me out babe. Just let me--"

"I said. Don't. Touch. Me."

And he wrenched his arm free and got up, getting as far away from her as the small confines of the balcony would allow. Sara gaped at his back in dumbfounded shock and tried hard to swallow the angry words that threatened to escape. When her brain finally started working again, she reminded herself that he was tired and overwrought and probably didn't even know what he was saying, so she made a concerted effort to keep her voice gentle.

"OK. But at least come inside. You'll catch your death out here."

"Yeah well, what goes around comes around I guess."

His tried desperately to keep his voice impassive, but there was an unmistakable crack as he uttered the words. Rising from her chair, Sara went to stand by his side, reaching for him, but he stepped away from her touch before her hand had time to land on his shoulder and with a small, annoyed sigh, she dropped her arm to the railing in front them.

"Look, I know how you must be feel—"

"Why does everyone assume they know how the hell I'm feeling?" He spat the words out harshly and spun to face her.

"I'm just trying to—"

"Well don't," he cut her off bitterly. "Just don't. I'm a big boy Sara – I don't need you fawning over me like some overprotective mother hen."

The words were out before he could stop them, and from the way her body froze next to his, he knew that he'd plunged the knife in very deeply. She turned her face away and he saw her hands clamp feverishly around the railing, her knuckles turning as white as the paint under them as she sought to keep her temper in check.

Suddenly all he wanted to do was put his arms around her and tell her how sorry he was and that he was being a jerk, but instead the words just kept rolling out of his mouth in a gushing torrent he simply didn't have the energy to stop.

"You couldn't possibly know what it's like to kill someone, Sara. To take a gun. To point it at a child's head. To pull the trigger. To watch someone die from a wound that _you_ inflicted, to see the blood splattered everywhere – on his clothes, on the rocks, on the ground…"

"Yes, I do Grissom." Her voice was ominously low, but clear as bell.

"How could you possibly know! You deal with dead bodies, not living ones! Not dying ones! You've never actually seen a person die, so what makes you think you could possibly know!"

"Because I was in the house when my mother killed my father, Grissom. I was in the _room_!"

Her words cut viciously through the fog of hurt and anger that had surrounded him and he felt the blood drain from his face as he slowly sank down on the edge of the vacant chair behind them. _You stupid idiot. You stupid, fucking idiot._

"Sara—"

She reeled around to face him, her hands balled into tight fists, her body shaking. "Why is that always the only thing you seem to be able to say to me?"

When his only answer was to shift his gaze to the ground, she shook her head angrily. She was desperate to help him, but his steadfast refusal to accept any sort of comfort was driving her crazy and she needed to get away from him and regroup, before she said something she'd regret.

"You know what, Grissom? Never mind. I have to go to the hospital to check on Catherine anyway…so…I'll see you later."

She left him shivering in the cold morning air as she turned and marched back indoors, and he could only listen dazedly to the muffled sounds coming from inside the apartment as she hurriedly got dressed, grabbed her keys and her bag and left without another word to him.

It was only when he heard the indifferent slam of her front door that he worked up the courage to venture back inside.

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_**A/N: I hope everyone will bear with me…It's gonna get worse before it gets better, I'm afraid… **_

**_Free veggie burgers to everyone who leaves a review…I'll love you forever!_**


	7. Whatever It Takes

**Thanks so much for all the reviews everyone - seems that I should bribe you guys with veggie burgers more often, ha ha!!**

**And thanks to sweet-surrender5 for the beta job...hope the computer virus bites the dust soon!!**

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**Whatever It Takes**

Once she was gone, he wearily made his way back inside, stomped to the bedroom, flung open the doors of the closet they shared and chucked on the first set of clothes that came to hand - an old pair of jeans and a black shirt. Getting dressed kept him busy for a few minutes, but afterwards he wandered aimlessly through the apartment, at a complete loss of what to do with himself.

Normally he would've gone to work, but today he didn't have that option. He flicked through the TV channels for a few minutes, flipped through a couple of magazines, had a drink of water, but none of it helped ease his splitting headache or the tightness in his chest.

He couldn't remember ever feeling quite this restless.

This helpless.

He wanted to go to his townhouse, but he didn't want to leave the solace of Sara's apartment. He wanted to call her, but he couldn't bring himself to speak to her. He wanted to stay till she returned so he could apologise, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to see her.

After a while, he found himself back in her kitchen and with a deep sigh of resignation he grabbed a glass, dumped a couple of ice cubes inside and seized the bottle of expensive whiskey he'd left in her cupboard.

He took her phone of the hook, switched off his cell, threw his aching body down on her couch and kept telling himself that he was just going to have one drink. That he just needed a couple of shots to calm down, to help him chase the desperately sought after sleep that had been eluding him all night.

That one drink would be enough to help him forget.

He was halfway through his third glass before he could admit to himself that _one_ would never be enough. His hand had a mind of its own and kept picking up the bottle from the table next to him, kept filling his glass with an inch of scotch, kept lifting the tumbler to his lips, kept tipping the amber liquid down his throat.

Pour, lift, swallow - again and again and again.

A pleasant lethargy was settling over his body, his legs and arms feeling heavy in the chair and his head starting to spin ever so slightly. The tight coil in the pit of his stomach didn't ease up much, and the occasional flashback kept interrupting his solitude, but at least the alcohol had driven the chill from his bones and he had almost stop caring about the fact that virtually half the bottle had disappeared down his throat.

Had almost stopped caring about when and _if_ Sara would come home, or what she would think when she found him like this.

Had almost stopped caring about _anything_ except doing whatever it took to forget.

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She was surprised at how murky the apartment was when she swung the front door open. With the heavy curtains drawn and the deep burgundy walls, it could be very dark inside even during the day, and she only realised he was on the couch when he raised an arm as he brought something to his lips. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the shadows and she gasped softly when she saw the bottle on the table next to him and realised how little of its contents remained.

_Shit. _

"Gris?"

Her only answer was the sound of the glass scraping along the table as he picked it up and drained the contents in one long swallow. He immediately poured another and when she reached for the half empty bottle in his hand, he clung to it with surprising ferocity.

"Give me the bottle, Gris."

"Not done yet." Despite the amount of alcohol that he'd obviously consumed his words were surprisingly clear and his grip on the bottle tightened even more when Sara dropped to her knees in front of him.

"Grissom, you've got to--"

"How's Catherine?" he cut her off abruptly.

"She was still sleeping, so they wouldn't let me see her…" Sara tried desperately to make eye contact with him, but he twisted his head to the side and she was forced to reach up and pull his face towards her, forcing him to meet her eyes. "…But the doctor says she'll be fine, OK? So please stop beating yourself up about that."

"Interesting choice of words." And he turned his face away again.

With a frustrated sigh, Sara got to her feet. "So what's the plan? You're just going to pour that stuff down your throat till the bottle's empty? Or are you going to sit here until you—"

"Sara, I don't need you hassling me right now."

"Then what _do _you need Grissom?" Her voice may have been quiet, but her tone was filled with exasperation. "Because I've spent the last twelve hours trying to get you to talk to me about this and so far I don't seem to be getting anywhere."

He stared blankly at the opposite wall as he tried to shake off the haze of alcohol that was enveloping his mind and tried desperately to come up with a satisfying answer. She deserved that much at least.

_I want you to keep talking to me. I want you to wrap your arms around me until I fall asleep. I want you to help me forget about this god awful mess, even if it's only for a few hours._

_I just want you…_

But his befuddled brain wouldn't allow him to marshal any of the things he was feeling into a coherent sentence and he found it so frustrating that he simply ended up choosing the easy road and snarling at her.

"I sure as shit don't want to spend any more time _talking_ about this!"

"Then why are you still here?" She swiped the bottle off the table, walked to the kitchen and threw it in the trash. "If you didn't want to talk to me about it, why didn't you just go home?"

His eyes narrowed dangerously and he rose from the couch with a dexterity that belied his obvious intoxication. Under different circumstances he might have wondered at the fact that his body could still operate almost normally even as large chunks of his mind seemed to be shutting down, but he was too immersed in his own pain to give anything that existential a second thought.

"Is that what you want? You want me to leave? Things get a little uncomfortable and you can't wait to throw me out?"

"No Grissom. I just want you to stop pretending that you're alone in this and let me in."

"Damn it Sara! I don't want to fucking _talk _about it - I just want to forget about it, alright? I just want to have two fucking seconds where I'm not thinking about the fact that I'm responsible for Catherine lying in that hospital. Just two seconds without the image of that kid's lifeless body flashing through my brain--"

"And you think downing a bottle of whiskey is going to help you accomplish that objective?"

"It was working just fine until you came back."

"Bullshit Grissom. It never works – been there, done that, remember?" As he came closer the soft glow that was coming from the hallway briefly illuminated his face, and she saw something flashing in his eyes that she'd never seen before, some raw emotion that went beyond the rage and the dread that she was expecting.

Something that made her entire body cry out to hold him.

"Then tell me – what the hell _does_ work huh? _Talking_?" His voice was mocking. "Because I'm sick to fucking death of _talking,_ Sara."

He was mere inches from her now and hhe had her sandwiched between the kitchen counter and his trembling body. His hands moved to the flat surface on either side of her hips and he leaned into her until his mouth was right next to her ear. The faint smell of scotch wafted over her when he spoke again.

She could sense what was coming, but she felt powerless to stop it. Actually, that wasn't quite true. She didn't _want_ to stop it. She needed what he wanted almost as much as _he_ did – desperate for _some_ connection before he completely slipped away.

"Will this make me forget?" His lips barely touched the silky skin where her ear and jaw met, but she shivered at the sensations his warm breath created as it caressed her skin and had to grab hold of his forearms to steady herself.

"Or this?" he whispered against her jaw, as he pulled her flush against his body, his hands firmly on her hips now, making it impossible to escape his embrace or to ignore his body's obvious response to hers.

"Grissom…"

"Help me forget Sara…" he was pleading now, his desperation evident when he pressed his lips roughly against hers. "Just for a while, help me make it go away…"

She raked her hands up his arms and tangled her fingers in his curls as she crushed her mouth to his, tasting the scotch on his breath and on his tongue, oblivious to everything but the way his hands were touching her, the way his body was moulded to hers.

This wasn't going to solve anything long term, she knew. And he realised it as well as he guided her to the bedroom and started pulling her clothes off. But right now all he wanted was to kiss her and touch her and have her do the same to him, until every other thought left his head and there was nothing left in the world but her.

He would apologise for this behaviour tomorrow, explain about the drinking and his guilt and maybe she'd forgive him for the selfish shit he was pulling now. If she was willing to listen he'd sit her down and talk all she wanted – he swore he would.

Neither could have predicted that it would be almost a month before he'd speak a full sentence to her again…

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**A/N: Since the veggie burger bribe worked so well last time, everyone who leaves a review gets a free K'Fed CD this time!**

**If _that_ doesn't entice you to leave a review, then I swear nothing will...**


	8. The Breakdown

**OK - a word of warning. First off, this fic has now officially entered the Alternate Universe, well…universe. And this is probably all wildly OOC, but I've kinda written myself into a corner and this was the best I could come up with…**

**So just go with it and hopefully it's not too bad…**

**Other than that, let us all sing hallelujah choruses in thanks to the computer gods, who restored my beta _sweet-surrender5's_ virus riddled machine to its (hopefully) former glory!!**

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**The Breakdown**

"_The only thing you take with you when you're gone is what you leave behind."__ - __John Allston_

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She had hugged his trembling body tightly afterwards, running the palm of one hand up and down his sweaty back while the other stroked softly through his damp hair, messing the greying curls even more.

She'd said all the right things, said everything he so desperately wanted – needed – to hear, whispered that it wasn't his fault, that it would all be OK, that he'd done the right thing.

And – for those few minutes - he chose to ignore the voice in his head that was still screaming accusations at him, that was still insisting on his guilt, that was still flashing images of Catherine's battered face and the boy's lifeless body in front of his eyes.

Instead he chose to believe her murmured words, allowing the soft hum of her voice to soothe him into a fitful sleep - exhausted, drained and no longer able to fight the demons inside him.

But he didn't stay asleep for long.

The dream began innocently enough – he was at the lab, examining evidence, talking to Greg - but it quickly degenerated into a terrifying chase through murky labyrinths and endless corridors, with Sara's screams echoing in his head and Catherine's mangled body sprawled before him wherever he turned.

And blood. There seemed to be blood everywhere – he kept slipping through pools on the floor, kept bumping into great splashes of it on the walls and at some point it seemed to rain from the very heavens, drenching him as he searched desperately for the source of Sara's horrified shrieks.

He was drenched in sweat when he finally woke up, his heart pounding painfully in his chest as he tried to get his uneven breathing back under control. It took almost an hour before he could relax enough to drift back into a restless slumber, but the nightmare kept intruding and after it shook him awake for the fourth time, he stopped trying to fall asleep.

Instead, he spent the interminable hours listening to Sara's steady breathing behind him, concentrating on her warm breath as it tickled the side of his neck, the feel of her arm flung over his hip, her hand resting warmly just below his chest. He lay unmoving as she stirred restlessly in her sleep, mumbled something into the hollow of his neck and clutched at the blanket that covered them.

Later, when the alarm clock screeched piercingly through the dusky room, he felt the mattress behind him shift as she groggily rolled away from him and irritably punched the clock into silence.

"Gris…?"

Sara rested her hand on his arm and he groaned quietly. She couldn't see his face and when he didn't move she assumed he was still sleeping and kissed his shoulder before she got up and went to the bathroom. She spent the next forty minutes getting ready for work and he kept his eyes closed the entire time - even when she dropped to her knees on his side of the bed and pressed her lips to his temple, whispering a quiet goodbye.

It was only after he heard the front door close and the distant roar of her car in the street below that he got out of the warm bed and pulled on the jeans and polo shirt that she'd flung to the bedroom floor a few hours earlier. Then he sank to the edge of the bed, cradling his head in his hands.

He was falling apart. Of that much he was certain. It wasn't just his bad judgement call regarding Catherine, or even the fact that he'd shot that kid. They were just the final blocks that had made his whole fragile tower come crashing down. This was something that had been building for months – years, even – and now it had finally reached crisis point and he could no longer ignore the signs.

Over the years he'd seen it happen often enough - CSI's, detectives, even the occasional lab tech – sooner or later most of them got to this place. That was the nature of the job – the demon they all had to face.

And now it seemed it was _his_ turn.

Some of them made it through – eventually came back to the lab, picked up where they left off.

Most of them didn't.

He had spent the last twenty years convincing himself that _he _could stay immune to the pressures of the job – that _he_ was different, that riding rollercoasters and racing bugs would present enough of a diversion to keep everything he saw and dealt with daily at bay.

That his own unique brand of emotional detachment would be enough to protect him from the insanities of the world around him.

That having _Sara_ would be enough.

Maybe it wasn't.

In the last twenty four hours he'd cried in front of her, ignored her, fought with her, drunk himself into a stupor – but despite it all she kept stepping into the line of fire, happily taking the bullets, endlessly patient and understanding.

And he couldn't expect her to keep doing that.

Besides – he had no idea what he was liable to do next. For the first time in his life he couldn't trust his emotions or his responses to them – and he didn't want to keep hurting her with his jackass behaviour.

That's why he had to leave.

He didn't know where he was going to go. Or how long he'd be gone. At the moment he wasn't even sure whether he'd be coming back. The only thing he _was_ certain of was that he needed time to come to terms with everything that had happened - not just in the last few days, but also the last few years.

And if he _was_ going into meltdown, he didn't want to run the risk of dragging Sara down with him.

He loved her too much for _that_.

So he got up from the bed and sought out the old overnight bag he kept at the back of her closet. He opened a drawer, upending its contents into the open bag, not bothering to fold or pack anything properly. His toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, razor, shaving cream, hair brush - even the towel he had used last night – all of it was dumped on top of the waiting clothes.

In the kitchen he removed the empty whiskey bottle from the trash – not wanting that inauspicious piece of evidence to serve as a reminder of his actions when she came home. And when he saw the empty glass still sitting on the table next to the couch, he dropped that into his bag as well. He was ashamed of his conduct – and even though he couldn't take it back, he _could_ at least remove all indication of it.

He worked quickly – afraid that if he hesitated, he would lose his nerve and stay – and he couldn't allow himself to do that. He was a mess and she deserved more than he could give her - more than he might ever _again_ be able to give her.

So he called a cab, went to his townhouse and spent the next few hours packing. The rest of the night he spent in front of his desk, trying to write a note that he could leave for Sara. Trying to find the words to explain to her what he was doing and why.

Trying to come up with a logical explanation for an illogical act.

He couldn't.

In fact, he found it almost impossible to come up with _anything _beyond the 'Dear Sara' at the top of each new draft. After several hours he had nothing to show for his efforts except a bin full of crumpled up pieces of paper and a pen running out of ink. By the time the first rays of the morning sun streaked across the top of his desk, he gave up.

He would call her later. Explain over the phone, make her understand.

_Oh - who am I kidding. I probably won't. If I can't find the right words while trying to write her letter, why the hell would it be any easier to talk to her over the phone?_

With a frustrated groan he left the desk and picked up the bags waiting by the front door. He took one last look around before he slammed the door shut, turned the key and strode to his car.

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His first stop was Desert Palms. He wanted to at least _see_ Catherine before he went, if only to reassure himself that _something_ good had come out of this unholy mess he'd created. But instead he spent nearly twenty minutes in the hospital's car park, unable to find the courage to go inside.

He was afraid of what might be waiting for him in there – afraid that Catherine might be awake and demand explanations he wasn't ready to give.

So instead of going in, he drove to the lab, parked a couple of blocks away from the building and waited.

After almost an hour and right on cue, the four remaining members of the night shift emerged from its shadowy recesses and got into their respective cars. They all headed off in the direction of Desert Palms and he gave a small sigh of relief before he headed into the lab and went to Ecklie's office.

Their conversation was brief – yes, he was on administrative leave pending the Internal Affairs investigation, yes, he could use his built-up leave after that, yes, Stokes could probably run the show until Catherine got back.

He left a hasty note for Nick at the front desk and in less than ten minutes, he was back in his car. The engine sputtered to life and the sun shone glaringly in his eyes as he turned the nose of the car east and headed out of the city.

He still didn't have a clue where he was going, but for now it was enough to simply put as much distance between himself and Las Vegas as he could.

He'd worry about everything else later.

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**_A/N: So – believable? Not believable? I'm almost too afraid to ask… Feel free to criticise – but please do it nicely…I'm feeling a little fragile myself!!_**


	9. The Hospital Visit

**Thanks so much for all the reviews and words of encouragement everyone! You guys ROCK! Due to my favorite friend, the computer gremlin, this chapter took a little longer than usual, so thanks to those of you still hanging around!**

**_And just as much thanks has to go to my beta sweet-surrender5. Her story kicks my one's ass, by the way..._**

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**The Hospital Visit**

Sara followed the three cars in front of her all the way to the parking lot of Desert Palms. She found a parking spot, turned the engine off and rested her head against the back of the seat, suddenly feeling very tired. She suspected it had more to do with the uncertainty of what was waiting for her at home, than with any real or imagined lack of sleep.

Thinking of Grissom just caused the knot in her stomach to twist a little tighter and she breathed deeply, trying to rid herself of the annoying flutter in her stomach.

She didn't follow Warrick, Greg and Nick into the hospital straight away. She wanted to make a call first and for that she needed a little privacy. It was useless trying Grissom's cell again – she'd done that at the lab before they left, and it had gone straight to his voicemail. Instead, she dialled her home number and was surprised when the phone in her apartment simply rang and rang. When the answering machine's electronic beep finally sounded, she realised that she didn't quite know what to say.

"Hey, it's…me. I guess you're asleep…or…in the shower…um…anyway…I've just stopped off at the hospital to check in on Catherine…so…I'll be home in about an hour. I'll…uh…get us something to eat…and then…um--"

Her voice trailed off. _Then what? Another fight? Another empty whiskey bottle? Or will we deal with the problem by jumping into bed - again? _

"--um…right…so I'll see you soon, OK?" she finished lamely.

With a sigh, she snapped her phone shut. Maybe between now and the time she got home she would have a miraculous epiphany about how best to deal with whatever was waiting for her at her apartment.

Let it never be said that Sara Sidle wasn't an optimist.

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Sara arrived at Catherine's room to find the three older CSI's sniggering at Greg, who was struggling to stuff an enormous teddy bear onto a chair in the corner. The bear wasn't having any of it and after a while, Greg cursed loudly and dumped it on the floor, before sinking down in the empty seat himself. He shot sour looks at his laughing colleagues and rolled his eyes when Nick started muttering something about '_the youth of today'_.

Catherine was the first to notice the tall brunette hovering in the doorway. "Thank god you're here," she grinned, and motioned for Sara to come in. "These guys have no sense of respect for the convalescing."

"Aw, come on Cath!" Greg complained from the corner. "Didn't your doctor tell you that laughter is the best medicine?"

"Sure, but not when it hurts like hell every time I crack a smile, you wise ass!"

Despite the smirk on her face, Catherine was looking exhausted - her head bandaged, her face bruised - and Sara noticed that the hand on top of the sheet was trembling slightly. Taking a deep breath, she plastered a huge smile on her face, hoping it would hide her shock at Catherine's appearance.

"Hey! How're you feeling?"

"Oh, it looks much worse than it is, I promise. I was more shaken up than hurt actually, so all this enforced bed rest has done wonders."

Warrick gave a snort and looked at Sara with a pained expression. "Don't let her tough act fool you," he said, glaring at Catherine in mock anger. "She's got a gash with five stitches under that bandage _and _a concussion. The doctor says she should still be sleeping, but you know her – she never listens to anybody."

The blonde glanced at him teasingly. "Well – it's good to know that at least _one_ of these boys has my best interests at heart…"

"Hey!" Greg was waggling his finger at her. "Who bought you that huge bear in the corner, huh? Plus, I had to pay Nick five bucks to help me carry it up from the gift shop downstairs."

"Easiest five bucks I've ever made, my man. And it's called a gym Greggo – you should try it out sometime."

"A gym? Now why would I want to mess with perfection Nicky boy?"

"Yeah, all right you two." Warrick smirked and got up from the chair. "It's about time we went home anyway. I'll bring Lindsey by before shift starts tonight, OK?" And with a quick smile at Catherine, the tall CSI herded Nick and Greg outside.

Sara flopped down on his recently vacated seat and let her eyes wander round the room for a moment. _Damn I'm tired._ The last 36 hours had been an emotional rollercoaster and she longed to just go home and sleep. Normally, the knowledge that Grissom was there and waiting would've sent her rushing home, but today she was filled with trepidation about what she would find when she returned.

_Yeah,_ she sighed to herself. _Things are really bad when I would rather hang out in a hospital with Catherine, than go home to him._ Still – she couldn't deny the fact that in recent months, she and the blonde CSI _had _become somewhat closer and she was genuinely relieved to see that the older woman was recovering so well.

"Are you OK?" Catherine was looking at her quizzically and Sara gave her head a quick shake, a wry smile flitting across her lips.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking _you _that? What exactly happened out there anyway?"

Catherine grimaced. "There's not much to tell, really. I was traipsing around in the dark, next thing I know I get bashed over the head with the business end of a gun and after that everything is kinda blurry. Thankfully, Grissom arrived before anything _really _bad could happen."

At the mention of Grissom's name, Sara shifted uncomfortably and Catherine suppressed a knowing smile. "So – how is he doing?"

She had to work hard to keep the catch out of her voice, but Sara managed a decent attempt at a noncommittal tone when she finally replied. "I...uh…I've been working all night and he obviously didn't come in…so…"

She cursed the hot flush that was rising to her cheeks and prayed that Catherine wouldn't notice, but she was out of luck. One eye might have been swollen almost shut, but there were some things that Catherine was still seeing just fine.

"It's OK, Sara. Jim swung by earlier, he told me what happened."

"I don't know what—"

"—I got the low-down straight from the horse's mouth – all about you waiting at the Police Station, taking Gil home…"

For a moment, Sara's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Brass is a dead man."

"Oh, cut the poor guy some slack," Catherine smirked. "Besides – neither you nor Grissom are the Oscar winning actors you seem to imagine you are."

With another furious blush, Sara got up and started gathering her bag. This was turning into a conversation she was definitely not ready to have – especially with Catherine - and somehow the prospect of going home and facing Grissom had become a lot less daunting all of a sudden.

"Well, since you're obviously well on your way to a complete recovery, I'm gonna love you and leave you. Besides, I have a homicide detective to kill."

"You haven't answered my question."

Sara groaned. "Yeah – I was hoping you'd forget about that. Let's just say…I honestly have no idea how he's doing."

When Catherine raised an eyebrow, she continued uncertainly. "He…uh…isn't coping as well as I would've expected."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That he's been behaving a little out of character. Blowing hot and cold – kinda…unpredictable." Sara gave a defeated sigh. "Right now, I'm just praying he doesn't do anything rash."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm probably just over reacting. He's just…acting a little weird. It'll pass. He hasn't really been sleeping."

"Yeah, well – you'd better keep an eye on him." Catherine struggled to sit up in the bed. "You remember Franovich from the day shift?"

"Who?"

"Oh, right - he left not long after you came to Vegas. Anyway – one day he's prancing around the lab like he owns the place, the next day he's just gone. Burnout. Actually, it turns out he 'misplaced' a piece of evidence in a murder investigation and left the lab before Ecklie could fire his ass. Ecklie was pissed, by the way – he was the dayshift supervisor at the time, and having members of your staff 'misplace' key pieces of evidence didn't reflect well on his management skills."

Sara snorted.

"But I digress. Whether Franovich lost that screwdriver because he was burnt out, or whether he burnt out because he lost that screwdriver, nobody knows, but the end result was the same. Career, reputation – years of hard work – all down the toilet. I think he pumps gas for a living now."

"What are you saying? That Grissom's heading for some sort of mental breakdown?"

"Gil's been on the job for over twenty years – he's due. Besides, he's always been the consummate pacifist – when's the last time he even _carried_ his gun, much less _fired_ it? And now he ends up killing a kid. This might just be the thing that pushes him over the edge, so just watch him, that's all I'm saying. CSI's have been known to have meltdowns over much less – and _some _have ended up doing crazy things before anybody cottoned on to the fact that they _needed_ help."

Sara stared at Catherine for a long moment, chewing nervously on her bottom lip. Truth be told, she was feeling slightly chagrined that the older woman had figured out the trouble with Grissom with such apparent ease, while she, Sara, had been blind to all the signs which had been blatantly staring her in the face.

But she had to admit - Catherine's assessment made sense, and besides – loathe as she was to admit it – who knew Grissom better or for longer than Catherine Willows?

Sara swung her bag over her shoulder and adjusted her coat. "You might have a point. I'll keep my eye on him."

"Good." Catherine smiled. "Oh, and Sara? Just so you know – I reckon it was about time the two of you got your collective heads out of your asses."

Sara rolled her eyes and felt her cheeks redden yet again. "Great. Now can we please never mention this again?"

"Fine by me," Catherine laughed. "Just do me one last favour and I promise to take your secret to my grave."

"Name it."

"Tell him if he messes this up, I'll kill him."

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**A/N: Since the K'Fed CD's proved so popular on a previous occasion, I have decided that _this_ time, everyone who leaves a review, gets a date with Ecklie. He promises to wine and dine you and whisper sweet nothings in your ear all night long...**


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